


born under a blue sky, die in a dark forest

by misura



Category: Fate/Zero
Genre: Consent Issues, Minor Unresolved Diarmuid Ua Duibhne | Lancer/Artoria Pendragon | Saber, Other, Tentacle Rape, Victim Does Not View What Happens to Them as Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:08:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28212933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: Diarmuid'd had plenty of bad sex in his life; one more time for a good cause wouldn't hurt.(AU - the battle in the forest takes a turn for the worse)
Relationships: Diarmuid Ua Duibhe | Lancer/Caster's Tentacle Monsters
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	born under a blue sky, die in a dark forest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosecake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosecake/gifts).



Diarmuid had expected death, but Caster's tentacles seemed considerably less aggressive after they had robbed him of both his spears - unbroken, more was the pity, meaning Saber would still be crippled.

He tried to move in the direction where he sensed his Master, still in some peril, but that seemed too much: three tentacles moved to sweep his legs out from under him, while two prevented him from actually falling which seemed ... oddly considerate.

Then one of the tentacles stroked his face, and Diarmuid thought, _oh_ , wondering why he hadn't considered that option. (Well. They were _magical tentacle monsters_. One did not gaze upon such creatures and consider whether or not they might be female, and thus susceptible to one's charm.)

(On the plus side, it seemed safe to assume there was no husband lurking around, and even if there was, Diarmuid doubted it would be anyone worthy of either his respect or loyalty, so that was good.)

The tentacles were cold and slimy and generally unpleasant, but happily also incapable of human speech, so Diarmuid supposed he owed it to Saber to make the most of this: he'd order the tentacles to turn on Caster, save Saber's life, and agree to fight her another day, once they'd both had some time to recuperate.

It was, he thought, a perfectly solid plan.

Evidently, the tentacles disagreed. Diarmuid hadn't even managed to command them, as such: he'd opened his mouth to do so, wishing he'd still had his spears (one could not strike a proper heroic pose without one's weapons) and one of the tentacles had promptly stuffed itself into his mouth.

Diarmuid had bitten down, which hadn't helped, and then he'd tried to pull it out, which _very much_ hadn't helped, since now there were also tentacles wrapped around his arms and legs.

Diarmuid wouldn't say he objected to a woman taking charge in the bedroom (or anywhere, really) but this was beginning to feel less like a slightly rough seduction and more like, well, a prelude to delivering him helpless and bound to Caster's mercy.

Diarmuid had no particular desire to experience Caster's idea of mercy up, close and personal. He wondered if there would be any point in trying to convey this to the tentacles (at least several of them seemed to have decidedly amorous intentions) when he realized that some of them had started to ooze a liquid that was dissolving both his clothes and his armor.

His skin didn't seem wildly fond of the substance either, turning red and itchy, though the tentacles were clearly trying to keep him more of less intact.

So maybe this still _was_ a seduction, albeit one that would require de-materializing to get his clothes back. Diarmuid supposed he could get on-board with that: it wasn't ideal, but it would enable him to survive and with luck find out what had happened to Saber, and with even more luck chop off Caster's ugly head and lay it at Saber's feet as a gift.

His Master wouldn't like that last bit, but his Master _would_ be very pleased if Diarmuid were to kill Caster, so it would all work out splendidly.

Diarmuid'd had plenty of bad sex in his life; one more time for a good cause wouldn't hurt.

Five minutes or possibly three hours later, he was beginning to reconsider. The thing about the tentacles was: there really were a lot of them. A _lot_. Caster had claimed them to lack all intelligence and honor, which might be true; he'd claimed dying buried under a mountain of them would be an ignoble and shameful death, which might also be true (but hey, Diarmuid's first death had been by boar, so it wasn't as if this was a step down or anything) but he hadn't said anything about how they did not seem to understand the human body had its limitations.

The tentacle in his mouth seemed happy to stay there - two minutes or possibly two-and-a-half hours ago, Diarmuid had gamely tried sucking on it a bit, to show willing, which had gone over well, apart from the bit where the other tentacles appeared to take it as an invitation to stuff themselves elsewhere.

At the time, it still hadn't _hurt_. The tentacles were slimy, slick, and it wasn't as if Diarmuid was some blushing virgin (an image of Saber fluttered through his mind; he banished it at once). He'd lain with his fair share of unusual women, and tentacles weren't that weird.

It was just that, one minute or possibly one hour ago, he'd reached a point where he was full. Tentacles slithering over his arms, tentacles slithering over his legs; tentacles slithering over his chest and back and stomach; one tentacle in his mouth, feeling thicker now than before he'd tried to be a good sport, and an unknown number of tentacles working their way inside of him, stretching him and filling him in a way that no longer felt like somewhat rough and kinky sex.

He wasn't yet _afraid_ , he didn't think, but he was beginning to stop being able to pretend he was enjoying this. The tentacles weren't noticing anything amiss, of course. He felt another one of them sliding up his thigh (he was reminded, absurdly, of Grainne, sliding her hand up that exact route, her eyes averted, her lips curved in a smile), clearly intending to join in - which would have been fine, if only one of the others would have pulled out.

At this rate, in another five minutes, he'd start worrying about dying that death Caster had threatened after all, rendering this whole endeavor pointless.

The newest tentacle pushed its way inside of him. He'd expected it to go about it slowly, carefully; it went about it fast and rough instead, as if sensing Diarmuid's shifting mood and growing unwillingness. As if it wanted to _punish_ him for objecting to what was, after all, less than considerate treatment.

Diarmuid only just managed not to bite down. He did _not_ want the tentacle in his mouth to get any ideas.

He did, rather desperately, want to get some ideas, any ideas himself, for getting out of this situation. 

Another hour, or possibly ten minutes later, he was having some mixed feelings.

On the plus side, some of the tentacles had decided to give him a hand - well, tentacle job. His cock seemed surprisingly into being circled and stroked by cold and slimy things that not so long ago had oozed a liquid capable of dissolving armor.

On the minus side, the remaining tentacles had decided to start moving. He'd thought feeling them work their way inside of him one by one and then staying right where they were had been mildly uncomfortable; he now realized that he'd been wrong, and that having them fucking him like they were pretending to be a man was way more mildly uncomfortable.

He might have disgraced himself by screaming (with ... not quite pleasure) if not for the tentacle in his mouth and his consideration for its feelings - or, to be his honest, his slight concern for the consequences of pissing it off.

Notwithstanding all this, the tentacles not busy with making him thoroughly regret having failed to kill Caster did seem to know what they were doing. He wondered if this was how Diarmuid Ua Duibhe's life would end this time, if the story tellers would say something like, _first, he spilled his seed, next, he spilled his heart's blood and then Caster would probably have made a note book out of his skin if Saber hadn't killed him first, enraged and driven mad with grief at Diarmuid's death_.

(Saber looked very pretty when she got angry. _Mad_ , now, that seemed a bit much. Diarmuid wouldn't wish _mad_ on her, though he'd admit to being vain enough to wish to be remembered, and remembered fondly, and perhaps with a touch of good old-fashioned lust.)

The tentacle in his mouth slipped out, which was a relief until it wrapped itself around his neck and squeezed, somewhat friendly at first, but then he felt himself rushing down toward the edge, heard himself cry out as he came, until the sound got choked off along with his breath, his vision, his -

"Lancer."

Two things of note: Saber, looking unharmed, impervious. Untouchable, more was the pity, though Diarmuid could hardly complain anymore about a lack of opportunities for satisfaction.

Also, he was still naked, the marks of love making all over his body. He wondered what she made of it, if she pitied him, or judged him, or felt embarrassed for him.

He wondered if she had thought of him while cutting down the tentacles whose remains covered the ground around them.

And then her hand was on his arm, warm and human and soft (but strong), and he wondered why any of those things should matter at all, as long as she was here, and looking at him, not as Grainne had, but as a friend.

She said, "It is my fault you got hurt." Her fingers trailed a long red mark from his elbow to his shoulder.

He thought of what a terrible thing it would be if she were to be snared by his curse. He said, "If you want to make amends, you know my desire, Saber. It is the same as your own."

She looked startled for a moment, caught, then thoughtful. "To fight." She paused. "I managed to retrieve your weapons."

Diarmuid allowed her to help him stand. She offered him his beloved spears back. Their hands touched, briefly, and Diarmuid told himself to stop acting (or more precisely: feeling) like a love struck and/or curse struck maiden. The experience with the tentacles had shaken him; well, any man might be shaken after having bedded such a partner. It was no excuse to fall apart, or act the fool.

He said, "My thanks, Saber. I would not wish to face you without these."

"Nor would I wish to face you without them," Saber said. She didn't mention her left hand, and Diarmuid didn't say he would have given its use back to her if he could, so that he might face her at her strongest, beautiful and glorious and burning as bright as the sun.

He might have said something else, he thought; something clever or flattering or true, but he felt his Master's need pull at him almost as strongly as if there were a tentacle still wrapped around his leg. (He looked down. There was nothing there that still moved.)

Saber said, "Go."

He went.


End file.
